Mr. Howlett

As one of the first colonists to cross the sea, Mr. Howlett possessed a strong aggressive nature; he was tough, stubborn, and full of oppressive force.

He considered himself one of the pioneers of this great era. Yes, he felt he was not just an adventurer chasing dreams, but a new aristocrat bringing the spark of civilization to a barren land, even if his father had only been the first mate on an old ocean-going whaling ship.

This man had the capital to be proud.

In 1763, Britain incorporated Canada into its colonial backyard. In the early summer of 1802, Mr. Howlett, only seventeen years old, came alone to this land that had yet to settle down, carrying nothing but an old-fashioned flintlock musket inherited from his father and 3 pounds and 15 shillings.

His older brother, meanwhile, had received the second-hand whaling ship and the "family" whaling business that old Howlett had spent his life accumulating.

More than forty years have passed, and in Edmonton, there is no one who does not know Mr. Howlett. He is the largest rancher and landowner in all of western Canada, and one of the few wealthy men among all the British colonists.

For many years, people have only known to address him as Mr. Howlett, and few have ever heard his first name. He refers to himself only as Howlett, believing that only he can represent the true Howlett family.

To this day, what troubles Mr. Howlett most is that the family line is not flourishing. Although he didn't lack effort in women's beds when he was young, now at sixty, he has only one son, John, and a young grandson, James, who is in his teens.

"Is Jamie feeling any better?" Mr. Howlett bit down on his pipe and squeezed out the words gloomily.

"Father Hans has seen him. He still has a bit of a fever, but he's stopped coughing. He woke up for a moment just now, drank some water, and went back to sleep." John carefully comforted his father; he knew how important James was in the eyes of his old father, who had already lost one grandson.

Mr. Howlett took two hard puffs, exhaled a long cloud of smoke, and said indignantly, "When I was ten or so, I was already strong enough to carry a harpoon to the blacksmith to have the rust removed. You were healthy as a child, too, running around carrying forty-pound calves. How is it that when it comes to Jamie, he's like a premature lamb!"

"Children might not be as tough as they used to be. Tony was so young when he..."

"That was because he caught a plague! It was those damned black beasts who brought the filth from that evil continent over here. From then on, no black thing is allowed to serve the Howlett family! Never again!" Mr. Howlett stared at John, saying each word clearly, his knuckles white as he gripped his pipe. John regretted bringing up his late son; he flushed and asked his father not to worry, then bowed and led Mr. Howlett to the living room to rest.

"James," lying in bed, heard every word from the hallway and felt it was safer to continue feigning sleep. After waking up, he had followed his instincts to ask for water, and then closed his eyes, blankly contemplating his current situation.

If a person dies and is reincarnated, there should be a process—like walking through the underworld or being squeezed out of a womb—but the current situation felt like the transmigration popularized in movies and novels. He kept his eyes tightly shut, struggling to wake from the nightmare, trying to distinguish between illusion and reality.

Perhaps this young child's body had gone through a severe illness and was truly too weak; he drifted off into a daze again, his mind constantly flashing back to scenes of practicing martial arts.

The gasping for breath as his depleted body struggled in a life-or-death fight, the short childhood years of this boy named James, the cute little maid Rose, the physically strong but somewhat bullying Victor whom he had always envied, and the beautiful mother Elizabeth, with whom he rarely spent time...

The improvement in his beloved grandson's condition put Mr. Howlett in a much better mood, which allowed the entire estate to breathe a deep sigh of relief. In fact, the servants and slaves were already accustomed to this occasionally oppressive atmosphere; young master James had always been sickly, frequently falling into high fevers and comas.

Whenever this happened, all the servants would act and speak with extreme caution, as even minor, usually overlooked mistakes could easily lead to punishment.

However, such conditions could hardly affect the older children, especially Victor, the son of the gardener Thomas Logan, who loved to stay by James's side whenever he was ill.

Mr. Howlett felt that Victor would be a loyal servant in the future and couldn't help but feel a bit more favorably toward the boy. John Howlett, James's father, however, disliked Victor intensely; beyond his slovenly and hideous long fingernails, the main reason lay with his father.

After dinner, Mr. Howlett heard that James had gotten up and eaten some toast and fruit. In high spirits, he went up to visit, pushing open the door to see his little grandson looking around with his head tilted, appearing quite spirited.

"Jamie, how do you feel? Are you still uncomfortable?" On this old man's face, perhaps only in front of this grandson could one see such a complex expression—striving to maintain his usual stern, disciplined demeanor while unable to hide that urgent concern.

"Grand, Grandfather, I'm much better. My head doesn't hurt at all. I'm so sorry to have worried you again..."

Mr. Howlett looked at his grandson, his eyes filled with complexity. James looked exactly like his mother, Elizabeth; he was a "pretty" child and very sensible and polite.

This was completely different from the rugged, unpolished appearance of the Howlett family, and his gentle, refined personality was nothing like his own, though his deep, dark hair and eye color were identical.

"Life should be stable now, and a gentle temperament is fine, too," Mr. Howlett mused to himself. He then gave James a few more instructions and left the room.

Old Howlett seemed to feel that there was some indescribable change in his grandson; even the tone of his speech was much more fluid, not as hesitant as before. He muttered to himself, bit down on his pipe, and went downstairs.

"James," having dealt with the old man, lay limp on the bed, his heart a mix of emotions. Looking at the 19th-century European-style decor and his own fair, small hands, he silently accepted the fact of this new identity.

From now on, there would be no more Bai Feng from his past life. The revenge had been taken; although he had sacrificed his frail body to take his enemy down with him, he had no regrets and had not failed his teacher. There was only a little Mr. Howlett, James Howlett.

Feeling the memories of James filled with pain, high fevers, and a weak life, he felt indignant. Could he not even be granted a normal, healthy body when transmigrating through time? He cursed silently, only to hear a rush of footsteps coming up the stairs, and the door was slammed open.

"James! I heard your illness is gone?"

"I'm still uncomfortable, but I should be fine. Thank you, Victor."

Victor Logan paced around the room carelessly, holding a small knife in his hand. He sat on the edge of James's bed and began to trim his excessively long, coarse fingernails, showing no restraint, let alone the respect and humility a servant should have before a young master.

James was not angry, but watched with interest as the older boy used the knife to whittle away the excess nail like he was carving wood.

"You're always like this, James, always so sickly."

Victor cast a disdainful glance at the boy sitting on the bed, who looked as delicate as a porcelain doll. At only fifteen or sixteen, Victor already had faint stubble on his temples and cheeks, and his large frame already looked like that of a grown man.

"I heard you were always sick when you were little, too?" James asked subconsciously.

Victor paused the knife he was skillfully whittling with and didn't answer. "A batch of high-quality foals is arriving soon. If you're still like this, don't even think about riding, and Mr. Howlett certainly won't let you touch them."

Victor held his head high as he stood up, patted the nail clippings off his pants, and strode out of the room without even closing the door.

James struggled to prop himself up, picked up a piece of nail that had fallen on the bed, and looked at it closely, something flickering faintly in his eyes...